


Confrontation From Old Ghosts

by Terror_AI



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Early Philanthropy Operations, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26611219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terror_AI/pseuds/Terror_AI
Summary: There is always another mission. Typically, it’s more of Snake doing the work, with Otacon simply tagging along, providing info on the recon from the quiet backdrop of Snake’s codec.Other times, the possibility of danger is equal on both ends.
Relationships: Otacon/Solid Snake
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Confrontation From Old Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Not really something I would include in my morally grey Snake collection, so I'm not.
> 
> Warning for references of past child abuse/grooming and mild sexual assault. 
> 
> Read at your own discretion.

He can feel himself giving into temptation. Holding a ghost in his hands, he’s mindful of the rotting teeth, the sinewy muscle decaying in rubbery strips, strumming each like chords and swaying his body to their haunting ballads. They cry out to him… a skull between his palms, its ghost just beyond arm’s length, sorrow in its ghastly pallor, stricken with grief at the sight of this young man on his way to that very same resting place they crawled out of - six feet under, wondering where they went wrong. 

Snake dreams of a grey fox dragging his corpse to his father’s doorstep, engulfed in flames. Its fur is charred with coarse, matted crimson. Snake is, for once in his life, terrified to go along with what he asks of him.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Snake says before a sigh. “It wasn’t any kind of bond that could be put into words… we saw one another on and off the battlefield but the only time I ever truly knew him was in combat. That was our pledge, his dying wish… I could see it in his eyes - he wanted me to take that time we shared and never let anyone else have it. Never lose its meaning.” 

Snake’s flushed cheek is pressed against the rim of a toilet seat. He groans, blocking out the midday sunlight beaming in through the single window above the bathtub as he tries to explain just what devotion and sacrifice mean to him. Why he can’t let go.

“But those two concepts are entirely dissimilar! You can’t... “ Otacon sighs through his nose, wading through a million different thoughts at once, as he always does. “I get it, okay? Back when I met - _you know_ ,” he mumbles, yet not quite ashamedly. “She and I were polar opposites. It wasn’t until I saw how warm and considerate she could be _off_ the battlefield, that I finally understood her. I get what you mean, only being able to know someone one way, and not another. But, Snake...”

They help one another in tandem. Otacon allows Snake to sling his arm around Otacon’s shoulder, to be carried into the next room, still feeling the sickly sensation of a post-blackout hangover plaguing his stomach and pounding the inside of his skull, and Snake hears Otacon. Either allow one another to utter names many years unspoken.

Snake stumbles beside Otacon, waiting for that great ravine to expand between them as Otacon simply cannot understand where Snake’s mind is at. 

“Maybe we’re better off having loved and let go,” Otacon says, leaning Snake against the arm of the couch, helping him sit without collapsing. “But you’re forgetting the ‘let go’ part. He meant the world to you but he wasn’t everything. There are still people trying to get close to you. I’m not telling you they’re more important, but you can’t keep living with something like that taking up such a large place in your heart.” 

He gives Snake a glass of water waiting untouched on the side table, and a small, cherry-flavored tablet along with it. They both pretend that Otacon isn’t speaking to a brick wall, and Snake just hopes that Otacon doesn’t peer through the cracks to see what truly lies on the other side.

Otacon sits across from him on a deflated, old recliner with grease stains on either arm - something that was a lone affectation remaining from the apartment’s previous owners. 

“We both know it took me a long time to get over what happened at Shadow Moses Island. I’m not saying I’m one to talk but,” he trails off, losing his point as he recalls the events that transpired. “You have to let go of all that, Snake.”

“I can’t help my dreams,” Snake says. 

“Right, but you can help whether you dwell on them or not. I never told you of mine and Wolf’s time together,” he chuckles, as off-handedly self-deprecating as ever. “At least, not in the boring detail I’m sure you would grow tired of pretty quickly. But it felt like - like more than puppy love. I’m sure it was all so stupid and one-sided, but she was…” his eyes flutter shut for a moment, getting lost in the warm memories floating adrift in a sea of desolation and loneliness, knowing full well he’s doing what he’s warned Snake off of. He sighs, clearing his throat. “She wasn’t like either of us. Maybe more like you, I guess, but there was something in her that I’ve never seen in anyone else. That’s how Grey Fox felt to you, is that right?”

Snake’s adam’s apple dances along the length of his throat, swallowing more than just bile and backwash. He nods, sweat beading down his brow in fat, shiny pearls.

“Then, you do understand,” Otacon says slowly, and Snake wonders if it isn’t Otacon who’s missing the point. “I know it isn’t easy detailing your nightmares. I’m really thankful you told me but there’s no reason to keep torturing yourself over the past.”

“You think I’m better off forgetting that Frank Jaeger ever happened to me,” Snake says, and the lack of inflection makes it the statement that Snake knows it to be.

Snake understands that normal people could not possibly grasp relationships formed within the encasing petals of war. Someone like Otacon, in spite of his efforts, is the last man alive who could understand what it’s like to shape your convictions, your _heart_ , around someone who lives and breathes war and conquest and dying. What blossoms in valorous death is hallowed and separate from all else. 

Snake and Frank Jaeger were never meant to be separated by death. It was the grief of life’s untimely ending that continually brought them together, and Snake always knew there would come a day when recalling their time alone was more important to him than being there to see the man himself; he knew after some time that the latter would no longer be possible, and he could live with that. If only his own mind hadn't twisted those sacred memories on their altar into something vile; they became torture porn, nothing worth fighting to hold any longer. Snake would sooner bleed himself dry than allow one of the only true and meaningful things he’s ever known to be sullied by his own psychology, and that is something Otacon likely couldn’t fathom. 

Grey Fox spoke to him from another time, and asked, in all his anemic pride, stricken down to a skeletal, corpse-like visage, that Snake join him, and that was Snake’s tipping point. 

Snake waves a hand when Otacon means to protest his words. “I believe that at any time, any place, people can fall in love with one another. You heard me say those words. Did you think they were just useless platitudes?” he asks, narrowing his bloodshot eyes at Otacon.

Otacon drops his head with sunken shoulders, knowing full well what Snake means. They aren’t the same. It isn’t his place to judge, only yearn for an understanding that Snake isn’t ready to give him. They aren’t perfect creatures. Otacon won’t pretend they are.

“I don’t need advice to help me through the night, Otacon,” Snake says. “It isn’t sleeping that’s the issue.” He tries to find Otacon with a gaze unreciprocated. “Promise me, if nothing else, that you’ll never bring this up again. My memories are my own. They’re sitting where no one else can touch them… I just can’t help how they age.” 

Otacon nods once, biting back everything else he would say, if he only _could._

“Atrocities bloom more often than love, in war. You know that, Snake,” he says, looking at his lap. Despite himself - despite how turbulent he feels, despite the buried sorrow he can see radiating off of Snake’s exhausted face - Otacon smiles. “As long as you’re rested before Philanthropy’s endeavors, I guess what happens in the interim is inconsequential.” 

If Snake wishes to be a tool - hung up with the others on its rightful rack after every op - then Otacon will allow that much. 

Otacon stands, his glassy eyes not straying from the floor as he makes to leave. Snake grabs the hem of his hooded t-shirt and tugs him downward, enough that his glasses slip further along the bridge of his nose to the point of almost falling off.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. He pushes Otacon’s frames up with one finger, releasing him, finally, and leaning back into those sunken cushions that hug him too closely. 

Otacon blinks. He doesn’t say another word. He grabs his laptop and heads for some corner of their dusty apartment that Snake - in his still partially inebriated state - will not follow.

Snake lies on cushions among the ashes of their fellowship, listening to the pulsating drumming of Otacon’s heart, rabbit-kicking against his chest as he furthers the distance between them for his own comfort, quickly rebranding itself as safety. 

  
There is always another mission. An op that demands undivided attention and a conscientious mind of every second consumed while on - as Otacon would so often say - Philanthropy’s dime. 

Snake has witnessed what routine redundancies can do to a mind untrained to a lack of motions. The lapping of waves, ever dull and repetitive, becomes a depraved, synthetic wailing, something artificial - an uncanny reality as discomforting as it is foreign. What Snake knows to be true, is that without stimulation, one’s mind deteriorates quicker than under prolonged duress; he’s never known a more alien form of himself than when he was alone, fantasizing about being in the field.

What that means is that he’s never far from thrusting himself back into the fray. The difference these days is that he isn’t alone. He has someone else to make it all the more difficult, and yet simplified at the same time. 

Otacon evokes droll humor from Snake when he’s impatient and rambles incessantly when he doesn’t understand Snake’s military lingo that’s so ubiquitous these days - far beyond what he’s capable of mastering, but at the same time, almost endearing; a sign that it’s Snake he’s talking to, not a stranger. Faith, companionship. He dances on those fine lines with such little regard as to where he may fall, because he’s done this casual meander a dozen times before and he knows now that there’s no way out besides through the flames. Snake’s presence in his life is just lighting the grill. Otacon won’t shy away from the heat this time. He isn’t waiting with bated breath anymore for the other shoe to drop.

Typically, it’s more of Snake doing the work, with Otacon simply tagging along, providing info on the recon from the quiet backdrop of Snake’s codec.

Other times, the possibility of danger is equal on both ends.

“Tabloids aren’t much to go off of but... there should be a large painting in the main office upstairs. Behind it, if our anonymous friend is correct, is a safe. The documents we need are inside.”

“Tabloids” being of the shaky, through-the-window-from-the-street-below variety, Otacon’s hesitancy isn’t misplaced in the slightest. He’s the type to trust without thought when he takes a liking to someone or something, however, meaning there’s more blind faith than hopefulness here.

“Are you sure this is a reliable tip? Anons aren’t exactly trustworthy, you know.”

“Of course,” Otacon says, almost too quickly. “I know the risks here. Don’t forget, we’ve been taking info from outsiders to the cause for _months_ now, with no incident. They aren’t all sketchy.”

“Or maybe you just know how to pick ‘em.”

Otacon’s cheeks heat as the praise settles on his chest, and the ensuing silence that falls heavy in the space between them is stifling. He swallows a ball of anxiety deep in his throat, pulling at the sudden tightness of his unusually tapered collar. “This suit is so tight,” he comments, and shakes his leg against an especially snug inseam. ”And these shoes… Snake, couldn’t we have picked a more subtle approach? I’m losing my nerve here.”

Snake’s unusually friendly face shifts into a charismatic smile at their company bustling by. “Having second thoughts?” he asks, casually fixing his tie beside Otacon, as cool and collected as ever. 

A caterer weaves through tables with one hand clutching a tray, wielding an assortment of vibrant finger foods and sparkling champagne glasses. Snake draws them in with a wave of his hand and grabs a glass of something for both him and Otacon. “You were the one who suggested this be a buddy-op.” He takes a sip, making Otacon feel pressured to do the same. “Besides, you don’t look half bad in a suit,” he comments, considering Otacon.

“I look like I’m about to jump out of my skin,” Otacon says, chuckling self-consciously. “You don’t have to remind me that this was my idea. Still, you’re right... I’ve been trying to think of another way to do this since we left the van. This is our only option, I think.”

A couple with matching uniforms - somehow expressly professional, and yet elegant - walk by, their spit-shined shoes rhythmically clicking on the marble flooring. Otacon’s breath catches. He can’t remember the last time he even spoke to another human being that wasn’t Snake, much less ingratiate himself into any conversation or business exchange. He’s sweating bullets, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious. 

“Who _are_ all these people?” he asks, and leans into Snake with a hushed tone, despite none of their company actually paying any attention to them.

“Businessmen, diplomats, politicians...” Snake snorts, and it somehow fits perfectly with the newly contemptuous persona he’s adopted for the occasion. “Spies, if you’re counting us. The usual dicey political crowd.”

“Huh. Wow.”

“Don’t worry too much. Most of these guys are just suits with fancy honorifics.” Snake gestures to a crowd gathered by a long table donning expensive appetizers, and each is dressed almost exactly the same, down to their arrogant smiles. “No one here is gonna grill you for info. But don’t stick to the walls the whole time, either. You have a job to do.”

Otacon takes a shaky breath. “Right.” 

“Just act natural,” Snake says. “I’m gonna shake some hands, try to blend in. You know what to do.”

Otacon knows exactly where he’s supposed to be. The task at hand currently lies in figuring out how to move to said location without giving away his reason for being here. Having Snake around meant that getting in was easy, but Otacon can’t imagine getting out would be so simple if he started setting off alarm bells. Even the slightest suspicion might be too much. This _is_ a VIP party, after all. 

It isn’t as though anyone here would be expecting them. Special care was taken to ensure that this would seem completely unprompted. A shady politician’s home being repurposed as a banquet hall, and for one night only? Otacon figured that was practically asking for unwanted company. 

Snake disappears into the crowd almost too easily, his charming smile swooning their fellowship in all likelihood. Otacon chooses to stick to the sidelines. He’s always been a wallflower. 

He makes for the nearest bathroom, casting unsure glances to those pristine smiles and perfectly coiffed do-ups around him. It’s all so nerve-racking, he can’t help but sweat. 

The laptop under his suit jacket is almost slipping out by the time he makes it into the bathroom. It’s a one-holer outside of a perfectly distracted party, which means he doesn’t exactly have to be quiet, but he’s still not too keen on sticking around any longer than he has to. 

He opens his laptop, clearing his throat loudly. “Snake, can you hear me?” 

“Loud and clear.” 

Otacon releases a shaky breath. “Okay, like I said, there’s an office upstairs with a large painting on, uh...” clicking on his end, he sorts abstracted files into proper images. “What should be the eastern wall, to the right of the entrance. I think it’s maybe a portrait or something. Figure out how to move it. If our little anon was correct, there should be a safe behind it.” 

Otacon hears distant laughter, the sound of arrogance preening for attention. “Hopefully containing plenty of damning information. I get it.” 

“Good, yeah,” Otacon says rather too unsurely. He scrubs his face with one clammy hand, remembering exactly where he is. “God, I hate these types of people. I’m not sure if this guy really is related to what we’re interested in, but there’s no way he could have a clean conscience. Not with a crowd like this.” He readjusts on the toilet lid, lined with silver trimming and golden hinges. “Who _bedazzles_ a toilet—“

“I’m upstairs.” 

“Really? That was fast.” 

“I always am.” There’s muted footsteps, the sound of rustling fabric. “Which way is the office?”

“I’m not too sure.” Otacon pushes up his glasses, mulling over sketchy snapshots of the interior that look to be taken from the hedges outside. He isn’t working with much, but it’s all they have. “The upstairs is laid out like a panopticon, almost. There should be a circular balcony on the interior somewhere with a clear view of the downstairs.”

Snake grunts, sounding a little put-off. “I’m there.”

“Not your type of house, huh Snake?” Otacon couldn’t lie, even he found the whole place to be more than just a touch excessive. Rich politicians with sketchy side gigs always have such hubristic architecture. He knew both he and Snake would feel very out of place once they got inside. “Just don’t let anyone see you. With the way it’s laid out, the downstairs should be more visible to you than you are to them, but we don’t want to take any chances. Try going left. The office is beside what looks to be a hallway window in one of these pics, so look for a connecting hall and a room perpendicular to its position.”

Snake opens a door without so much as a sound. Only the subtle creak of a hinge gives away his motions. “I found the office.” 

“Nice!” Otacon enthuses. He was worried this would take longer, but with his intel and Snake’s intuitive thinking, they’ll be out before the hour breaks. “Alright, like I said, eastern wall. There should be a large portrait.” 

A brief intermission of silence. Then, Snake sounds to be straining against something, muted grunts and all. “This painting isn’t going anywhere, Otacon.” 

“Huh. That’s weird.” 

“Must have something major to hide, nailing his decoy to the wall.” 

“I’ll say…” He should have expected this. Brief hang-ups are one thing, but even he should have suspected there would be more to this than what their anon’s half-baked briefing let on. “Jeez,” he says, following a sharp exhale as he is suddenly acutely aware of how much time they’re wasting. “Give me a second. Maybe I can find something in these files we were sent.” He moves quickly, going over the few lines of encrypted data he was sent comprised of locations, dates, even satellite imagery of the lot they’re on. “I thought I looked them over well enough… shouldn’t there have been some mention of this? I would have caught it, there’s no way I could’ve overlooked anything like that.” 

“Otacon, it’s fine,” Snake says. Even he can hear the self-consciousness in Otacon’s voice. “Don’t beat yourself up. We still have options.” 

“Right, yeah.” Otacon sinks his shoulders, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He re-adjusts over his laptop, centering his fingers on their designated keys. “OK, I can’t find anything. Try looking for a switch or something.” 

Snake is silent. All that gives away his existence upstairs is a heartbeat monitor on Otacon’s end that’s connected to his nanomachines, thudding away evenly. A modicum of comfort to Otacon, at best.

In a perfect world, Otacon would be able to see Snake’s every move. They usually tap into local security systems days in advance, making sure they know any present patrol’s routes, shift changes - anything to ensure there would be no unwanted interactions that could potentially endanger Snake. But this is a residential lot - someone’s home - not a corporate building. Otacon doesn’t much care for being in the dark on Snake’s position. 

“Check around for a mechanism of some sort, maybe? I’m fresh out of ideas here, Snake.” 

Otacon can hear the rustling of papers, but not much else - a wooden drawer closing, the sliding of a desk chair over felt carpeting, and eventually, Snake’s dispassionate tone. “Found a switch.” 

A sigh of relief. “Great work! Let’s hope there’s something to compensate us for all this trouble.” 

“No one with nothing to hide goes through this much trouble to stash their belongings. We’re exactly where we need to be.” 

“Well said,” Otacon agrees, realigning his frames and feeling just a little more sure of himself. “Can you see the safe now?” 

“Affirmative.” 

Otacon covers his mouth to stifle a giggle. Snake’s military lingo is always so casually grave, far too serious for the occasion. “Great. The documents we need should be inside. Can you get it open?”

“No dice. Latch has a combination lock on it.” 

“Of course it does,” Otacon mutters into his palm, cursing his luck. “Because why would it be that easy?” He makes a noise of frustration, combing his hands through his hair. “Just give me a second, let me do some digging. Search around for any clue as to what it could be. Remember, combo locks are numerical, so find some kind of date - maybe a birthday, an anniversary. Look through whatever drawers you can find.”

There’s a faint rustling on Snake’s end as Otacon simultaneously does his own digging. Otacon can hear Snake’s breathing, watching the trusty heartbeat monitor out of the corner of his eye. He blinks at it when it spikes. “Got something?” he asks, and Snake’s grunt is a welcome confirmation.

“A family photograph,” Snake says, and Otacon imagines him twirling the printed square in his hand as he can faintly make out the wobbly sound of it being shaken. “There’s a date on the back - September the fifth, two-thousand and five.”

Otacon hums to himself in contemplation, trying to summon a significance behind the date, but falling short. “Yeah, that could work,” he says, rather half-heartedly.

“Think it’s worth trying?”

“I don’t see that we have many options here,” he admits. “Go ahead and try it. It’s not like we have anything to lose.”

“I got you,” Snake says, and Otacon can hear the distant winding of the safe’s lock as Snake inputs the four digits in their designated order. Otacon holds his breath without meaning to, listening intently for anything that may reveal whether Snake’s find was of importance or not. Their luck seems to be running on a long streak, as of late; he wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up searching all night for the proper code in spite of that, however.

The thought alone steals from him what air he’d been holding on to, and Otacon exhales, instead praying to no one in particular that the cosmos grant them just a meager fragment of mercy on this night.

The silence is unbearable. Then, a discernible ‘click,’ and the sound of metal screeching against itself as Snake opens the safe’s door, Otacon taking a moment to correct the pace of his breathing, soothing his heart’s uneven drumming inside his chest.

“Great work,” he says, finally allowing himself a somewhat satisfied smile as Snake returns the exchange with a muttered, “you too.” He wouldn’t admit it, but he lives for moments like this - when all the pieces fall into place and his faith in their operation is restored, almost tenfold, until the next time an uneasy op has his convictions shaken at their core when they just can’t seem to get things right on the first try. 

Snake is heard rustling documents scattered atop one another in no particular fashion, digging them out and spreading each neatly side-by-side on the office’s wide desk, Snake standing where the rolling chair would typically sit, surveying his work. Otacon doesn’t mind the brief moment of silence as Snake works out the arrangement of their newfound dirt on this politician; Snake never leaves him in the dark, only going quiet when he’s busy procuring their prize, or sending Otacon shaky snapshots of it just the same. It’s a moment that signifies their success, if nothing else.

“I’m sending you the pictures now,” Snake says, and Otacon nods dutifully, forgetting that Snake isn’t actually in the room with him. He’s been meaning to devise a two-way communication system that isn’t audio-only, for precisely this reason. 

“Oh, and Snake,” Otacon starts. “Send me a shot of that family photo you found. The date, too. I wanna see just who we’re up against.”

“You think his family is apt blackmail? If the rest isn’t what we’re looking for, it could come in handy. Good thinking.”

“What? No, Snake, of course not!” Otacon says quickly, almost too loud for his strategic location. “I just mean that it would be good to get an idea of who we’re dealing with here, what he’s like outside of… nefarious political pursuits, or whatever.”

“Right. A picture’s worth a thousand words and all that. I get it, Otacon”

Otacon pushes his glasses up, huffing. “Honestly, Snake, I can’t believe you would think so low of me. Sometimes,” he starts. “Sometimes I just can’t believe you. Really.”

Snake makes a low, neutral noise, his expression likely unimpassioned, although Otacon can’t see it. “All’s fair in love and war,” he says, ignoring Otacon’s disapproving sigh that soon follows. 

The images come through, finally, and Otacon has promptly forgotten their momentary quarrel. He leans over his laptop, immediately engrossed. “Alright, yeah. This is…” he trails off, biting the inside of his cheek as he scrutinizes the blurry lines of data quickly rendering themselves into proper images. “This is good, I think. We could almost—“

A spasmodic knocking against the bathroom door has Otacon swept away in the ensuing silence, the air suddenly so thick that he holds his breath, meaning not to choke on it. A woman’s voice is muffled by the door between them, but Otacon can make out the query. 

“Who’s in there?” the voice asks. “Come out, you’ve been away long enough.” 

Otacon is frozen, his throat suddenly closing up as Snake’s voice serves to pull him back to reality. “Otacon,” Snake says, and it’s lost that cool, unaffected touch his tone usually carries. “Say something. You can’t just pretend you aren’t there.” 

But that’s precisely what Otacon has done, over the years. Even back at Shadow Moses, he got by pretending he simply didn’t exist, that his enemies were objects he could pass through like a spirit, impervious to their raucous yelling and their bullets that had stolen so much from him.

The woman knocks again, meaning to encourage Otacon to come out. It only causes him to tense up, his shoulders setting a hard line. 

He tries to speak, ending up choking out an incoherent string of syllables. “Uhm,” he wavers, feeling suddenly faint. “O-Occupied!” he feebly replies, likely too entangled in his stuttering phrases for the woman to decipher. 

This isn’t exactly a surprise. He isn’t made for field-work. Never was. He never should have tried. And now Snake is—

_Right, Snake_. Otacon tunes into his partner’s voice attempting to anchor him, to keep him grounded, because Snake doesn’t need a heart monitor to know that Otacon’s blood is steadfastly rushing to his ears. 

“Otacon,” Snake begins, forcefully calm, though the anxiety they both feel has him biting off the end of his every word. “Listen to me. You need to walk out of there and act natural. Pretend you belong, and they’ll assume that you do.” To no answer, Snake sighs. “ _Otacon_ ,” he says once again, just a touch of panic trickling into his voice. “You have to listen to me. Walk out of that bathroom. We already have what we need, it’s time to leave.” 

Otacon sucks in a sharp breath, knowing what he has to do but really, really not wanting to do it. “Snake, I can’t,” he insists. “I…” he tries, but his words fall away at another bout of knocking. “Snake,” he begins, and just then, there’s another voice on Snake’s end of the codec call, as alarming as it is unfamiliar. 

“Snake?” Otacon asks instead, his head buzzing with dread and worry. 

A distant thud, a door closing. “Who the hell are _you_? What are you doing in my office? Get out!” 

The woman knocks once again on the bathroom door, drawing Otacon’s attention back as she demands answers he cannot provide. He stands there stiff as a board and completely silent, holding his breath as the world seems to tilt off of its axis in an instant. 

He can hear Snake’s end of the call going staticky with the pointed noises of a struggle, and then, absolute silence. Snake _muted_ his call. 

No Snake. No guidance. Otacon’s knees buckle as he leans against the sink to keep from falling to the tiled floor. Things don’t usually get so bad so quickly.

The woman’s voice rings aloud, far too determined to not have a purpose for knocking so relentlessly.

Otacon rests a hand against his chest, smoothing out the fresh wrinkles in his suit as much as he’s feeling for his heartbeat, so sure that it rose out of his throat and rolled away moments ago. “I-I said,” he tries once again, choking on his own saliva. “Occupied, at the moment! Sorry,” he manages, a dreaded, pathetic little plea.

The woman seems to pause, although she soon tries the doorknob instead. Otacon drops his chin to his chest and presses his eyes shut, letting out a desperate whine that he hopes she cannot hear. 

“Of course. I only wish to speak with you, I’m sure you understand,” the woman says, and Otacon decides he may as well do as Snake advised. At this rate, he’s drawing more attention to himself by not opening the door than he would be re-entering the party. 

Snake is capable. There’s no reason he should falter now, even with the unprompted nature of both of their visits. This wouldn’t be the first time that a plan of theirs has gone off with a major hitch. He hopes Snake is doing alright, though, subconsciously worrying even as he prepares himself to come face-to-face with another person after - well, he isn’t even sure how long it’s been. All he’s had is Snake, no one else. That thought in the back of his mind certainly doesn’t help his confidence. 

He forces himself to take a deep breath, stepping towards the door with intention. He turns the lock and steps back as the woman doesn’t even bother waiting for him to open the door himself. 

They finally lay eyes on one another, and Otacon feels that he has finally met his end. 

The woman’s eye on his is cautious, her gaze flicking up and down his ruffled suit, eventually landing on the laptop resting atop the toilet lid behind him. She looks elegant, almost, certainly dressed for a party. Otacon follows her eye and curses himself. He should’ve known better than to forget something like that - to just leave it out in the open was stupid. 

Her dark eyes consider him, for a moment. She closes the door behind her and Otacon doesn’t miss the distinct sound of it locking soon thereafter. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she says, suddenly all too friendly. She extends a hand to Otacon, her nails perfectly manicured, the top and underside of each painted an unusually bright shade of red. “Your name?”

Otacon stands there, unsure of what to do. He nervously takes her hand in his, giving a curt one-two shake and trying to will away his clearly terrified expression. 

She arches a penciled brow, and it occurs to him that he didn’t even manage to say his name. “Ha--“ he almost reveals, but soon recalls the fake names that he and Snake came up with for precisely this reason. “Johnny P-Pliskin,” he finally manages. 

The woman tilts her head. “Mr. Pliskin, I can’t say that I was aware you would be joining us tonight,” she admits, and yet her smile is bright enough to compensate for her supposed lack of knowledge as to who he is, his role here. Otacon doesn’t believe it for a second. “I’m curious how you know my husband. Are you two well acquainted?” 

“Oh, y-your husband,” Otacon repeats dumbly. He suddenly recognizes her face as that of the one that was in the family photo Snake had sent, her auburn hair and sharp cheekbones looking just the same as they had in September of ‘05. “Your husband, of course,” he says, as if the words had finally stuck. 

“I assume you two know eachother well,” she says. Her eyes survey him, apparently clinging to something worth ogling below his waist. It’s then that Otacon realizes the woman hadn’t even spoken her own name when they had shaken hands. 

“No,” he says. “Well, not exactly. Uh- he’s an associate of my partner, you see.” He gulps, swallowing the lie and hoping he can convince himself in the process of convincing her. 

“Your partner?” The woman arches a thin brow, stepping closer, just as Otacon takes a full two steps back at the same time. She considers him for a moment, seeming to calculate his withdrawal before frowning. “Business, or intimate?” 

Otacon pauses, blinking. “I,” he tries. “I’m sorry?” 

“Are you two business partners, or does the arrangement go deeper than that?” She looks him up and down again, still frowning. However, something more lies beneath her calculated exterior.

Otacon’s cheeks flush, and from more than just the adrenaline. He can’t think why she would want to know that type of information, but either way, it can’t be good. 

And he doesn’t know what the real answer is anyway.

“Business,” he says matter-of-factly, adjusting his frames and trying not to make it out as the anxious tic that it is. “We’re purely professional, that’s all.” He thinks for a moment, daring to ask a question of his own. “Uhm… why, exactly, would you want to know that type of thing?” 

The woman laughs smoothly, and it seems so casual. She steps forward with an arm outstretched and Otacon tenses. She seems disappointed at his hesitancy. Instead, her eyes flick to the laptop behind him. “Mr. Pliskin,” she begins, calm and blasé. “I would love to know what you have on that device of yours, if you would humor me. I think it would be in your best interest to choose your response carefully,” she says, and if Otacon wasn’t nervous before, he certainly feels close to retching now “I would appreciate it more than you know.” With her silvered tongue spitting words at him that may as well be riddles, Otacon’s throat closes up again, his body tense under her touch as she smoothes a hand across his tailored shoulder pad. 

“I, well,” he flounders, clearing his throat. “I’m afraid I, I can’t do that.” 

She doesn’t seem to consider his words at all. Her hand slides down the expanse of his chest and he freezes, his blood running cold. “What are you…!” he squeaks, and the woman continues until finding purchase at the groove of his waist where thigh meets hip. Otacon doesn’t dare move, feeling helpless, his tongue fat and gamey in his mouth, and his vision suddenly fractalized by a betraying moisture. 

The woman slinks beside him, close enough that Otacon can make out the crow’s feet on her face, beneath the makeup and betraying her middle-age. She doesn’t seem to mind when he sucks in a sharp breath at her nuzzling his neck. 

“Mr. Pliskin,” she begins selaciously, and the name somehow doesn’t conjure up those familiar images of Snake, as it usually would. Only the ghosts of his past - double initials, and a woman by his father’s side. “There’s no need for anyone to find out about this little, hm,” she pauses, considering as she idly gropes him. “This little detour of yours. Rather, I think you’re quite adorable.”

Her words fall through a grin as Otacon stares at the wall behind her without any notion in his mind as to what he should do. He makes a high noise of struggle, attempting to push her hand away to no avail. She holds her grip firm, squeezing as he squirms beneath her.

“I-I’m sorry,” he croaks, petrified. “We can’t, I can’t, I—“

“What’s a boy like you doing here all alone?” she asks. “Did your business partner convince you to come? Did you have a choice? You can be honest with me, Johnny, I’ll take care of you.” Otacon flinches at a slight tug on his earlobe as she nips him.

The room seems to spin. He wants this to be over, to give her what she wants. But what would that cost him, not to mention Snake? All of their hard work, gone in a flash because he couldn’t stand up, because he couldn’t be a real man for once in his life _and just say no_ —“ 

The bathroom door rumbles a tremendous sound, and Otacon feels the ice in his veins melt away into horrific embarrassment. The woman steps back, not attempting to hide her surprise. 

Otacon sees his chance and pushes past her, hugging the sink as close as he can while doing so. He unlocks the door and feels a wave of relief wash over him greater than anything he’s ever felt before now, he’s certain. 

Snake stands there, now nothing more than a dashing stranger. His smile is a farce athough seems as genuine as the real thing. “Mrs. Johansson,” he says, and even his gruntish voice is honeyed on the finish. “And Mr, Pliskin, I was just looking for the two of you.” His eyes slide from her to Otacon’s ghastly visage, the sweat of his brow thicker than it was earlier. “I’m glad you two already had the chance to meet. It saved me the introductions. I just finished up some business with your husband, actually.” Snake deadpans. “He’s a real gentleman.” 

Otacon doesn’t miss the sarcasm. He won’t turn to the supposed “Mrs. Johansson” to see her reaction, though. He would not dare. 

Snake is everything strong and competent before him, and Otacon wants to fall into his chest and be carried out like an injured animal, not too far from how he feels, wanting to lick his wounds elsewhere. He can’t stop the spasming of his muscles as they tremble. 

Snake gives him another brief look, sympathetic before an anger only Otacon could spot through the charming exterior takes over. “I think we’ve botheredyou two enough for one night. It’s best we leave now, before anyone says or does something they might regret later,” he says with a dangerous edge in his tone, glancing back at Otacon. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Pliskin?” 

Otacon finds his gaze too intense, too shaming, and looks to the floor instead. He wordlessly nods. Snake’s anger seems to flare at that. 

“Right,” he says, wrapping an arm around Otacon’s shoulder and casually ushering him out. “Give my regards to your husband.” His tone suddenly drops. “Tell him I’m sorry about the desk.” 

Otacon wonders what the facetiousness behind that is supposed to convey, but he doesn’t contemplate it for long. A sea of eyes watches him and Snake walk out the front door and onto the street as they had entered, silencing his thoughts for a moment once again with blinding fear. He can feel Mrs. Johanson’s eyes as an itch between his shoulder blades as they finally leave. 

His head feels light. Snake leads him like a blind man to the van, parked a few blocks away, and doesn’t say a word the entire walk. 

They slide into the van together, Snake taking it upon himself to drive as Otacon mumbles, meaning to thank him, but the intent behind his words is lost the moment he realizes just how hard it feels to speak after what just happened. Snake is silent, staring out of the windshield as Otacon’s gaze rests in his lap, a quiet storm laying siege to the last of his rational thought. 

The air between them is stifling, the silence interrupted only by Otacon’s uneven gasps for air every other second. He isn’t sure how to feel, just struggling to keep composure.

It takes a full ten minutes of silence as they cross the city before either of them finally says anything.

“That was...” Otacon begins, the tightness of his lungs shutting him up quickly. He gives a shaky exhale. “I’m sorry, Snake,” he says, hating how defeated he sounds. “I just— I froze.” 

Snake doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Not immediately, anyway. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel in agitation “Are you okay?” he asks, not sparing Otacon so much as a side glance. 

“I, well,” he says, fumbling with his shaky hands. “You’re not angry with me?” 

This time, Snake does look at him, his brow setting a low, hard line. “Otacon,” he says, his partner cringing at the grave tone of his voice. “Why the hell would I be angry with you right now?” 

Otacon shakes his head. He could think of a million answers to that question, but supposes his point lies beyond an answer. “That was bad, Snake. That was,” he sighs, closing his eyes. “That was really bad.” And he’s right; they haven’t allowed themselves to be caught like that in - ever. “Who was the man that confronted you? And, that woman…” he trails off, still feeling her hand groping him through his slacks. A tremble overtakes him. He hugs himself, skulking against the window. 

Snake eyes him before reaching over and squeezing his shoulder. “Hey, get out of your head. That wasn’t your fault,” he assures, and his tone is so gentle all of the sudden. Otacon has to blink at him, surprised. “Shit got out of hand real quick. I could’ve done something sooner.” He pauses for a moment, thinking, before his tone drops. “That guy isn’t someone you or I need to meddle with. He’s out of our jurisdiction, at least with the way we’re conducting things lately.” Snake shakes his head, speaking more to himself than Otacon. “They could bury us, if they wanted.” 

Otacon raises a brow at him. “You knew her name,” he says, and it’s more of a question than a statement. “She seemed to know you, too. What was wrong with her, and what did she want from us? From,” he starts, his tongue feeling like cotton. “From me.”

“I’m not sure what she wanted,” Snake admits. “I don’t actually know her. Only her husband.” 

“What? You knew who we were digging up dirt on?” Otacon gestures to Snake. “I thought— don’t you think that would’ve been a nice bit of information to share _before_ we went in the way we did? That was… god, Snake.” 

“Look,” Snake starts. “I didn’t actually realize who we were dealing with before then. If it makes you feel any better, I was just as surprised to see either of them as you were,” he says, and somehow, Otacon doubts that very seriously.

None of this rests well with Otacon, for a variety of reasons. The utmost being that if Snake knows of this individual - the husband of the woman who cornered him - then there’s certainly a larger issue beneath the surface that he’s unaware of. Snake “knowing” people outside of those he kills or works with - Otacon being the only exception to the latter, as it stands - is never a good sign. 

“He’s a former black-ops CIA agent,” Snake says, watching Otacon’s face twist with worry. “Now he's loosely classified as RED - retired and extremely dangerous.” He looks out of the window, cursing to himself. “Not the type that either of us need to be involved with. This could give us some real heat on our asses.” 

Otacon buries his face in both of his palms, shrinking into himself with a groan. “Oh, Snake…” He shakes his head, hoping this is just a bad dream he’ll wake up from. They just can’t afford fuck-ups like this one. “I’m so sorry,” he finally says. 

Snake shrugs. “You couldn't have known.” He drives the van down a dark street, the occasional ray of light beaming in through the windows of people’s apartments from above. “Last I heard, he was discharged for dishonorable conduct. They originally tried for a court-martial.”

Otacon looks at him, wide-eyed and horrified, almost not wanting to hear where this grim story ends. 

Snake considers him for a brief moment, before looking back to the road ahead, his expression unimpassioned. “Let’s just say that didn’t work out too well, and his current civilian status is of very ambiguous terms."

“What exactly did he do?” 

Snake shrugs again, bouncing only one shoulder this time. Otacon hopes, under all his curiosity, that Snake knows to spare him the gritty details. “Civilian analog offenses.” To Otacon’s lost expression, he continues with a sigh. “Call it a civilized way of saying ‘moderate war-criminal.’ Think of your everyday, run-of-the-mill criminal acts, and apply them to a combative setting. The disciplinary ramifications are more extreme depending on the rank, the location. It’s about the least you could do to find yourself with a court-martial.”

Otacon blinks at him. “Oh. But he couldn’t have earned any real rep for petty offenses.” Snake nods, and Otacon tilts his head. “So then… there’s more on his record than _just_ petty crime.” 

Snake nods again, and Otacon hates how unreadable his expression is. He doesn’t know what that means, and he’s dreading the truth. 

“He did something bad enough to earn him notoriety with someone like you,” Otacon says. “That means,” he looks away, dropping his attention from Snake and feeling an all too familiar queasiness settle in his gut. “That means I got us into more trouble than I really even know, huh.” 

“You didn’t do anything on purpose. It was my fault for not paying attention.” He dodges the question, which Otacon takes as further confirmation. 

Otacon shakes his head, waving his hands. “No, Snake. This was my fault. Once again, I let a tip get the better of me. I took uncalculated risks that could have killed us both.” Snake raises his brow at the implication that this isn’t the first time, and Otacon backtracks a bit, reminding himself that Snake doesn’t know everything about the inner workings of their operations, the dodgy side investments they’ve made. He doesn’t know that Otacon has a stash of less than legitimate future ops pertaining to nothing they should truly care about, but that came from some favorable sources. 

He takes what they do seriously, he does, but isolation has given him a knack for paranoia just as much as it has a longing for camaraderie where it doesn’t exist. He has no one left in the game that he could actually interact with, Snake and Mei Ling aside; his tendency to get a little too carried away thinking that every “helpful” stranger has Philanthropy’s best interest at heart just got the better of him, wanting to find support where he can and accept it with open arms, and he doesn’t doubt that it won’t be the last time. Could he really be blamed for wanting to believe that there are still good people in the world?

And how stupid he’d been for thinking this night would go smoothly, that it could be a vacation, even. A break from the grind for an evening would’ve been a godsend - it always is - but he allowed himself to fall short on the carry-out. He should have done things differently. He should have been more careful. 

Otacon looks away and doesn’t dare to meet Snake’s eye, who simply arches a brow at him and nothing else, choosing to further the silence instead. 

He informs Snake that he and Mei Ling should be in contact within the hour, once they get to the apartment. There’s no shortage of people praying for their downfall; for all he knows, that tip could’ve been a trap, one that he just led Snake into without even thinking it through. He knows what this means, too - they’ll be packing up and jumping ship as usual, trading in convenience store noodles for gas station calorie bars and lukewarm, drive-thru coffee. It isn’t a fabulous life in the slightest.

He’s landed them in a position to flee, which hasn’t happened in weeks. He was almost beginning to like Seattle, too. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Snake says as he parks the van in a dark alley outside of their apartment. “I told you, it isn’t the end of the world.” He turns the key in the ignition, settling the two of them in silence as the engine dies, neither of them actually moving to leave. 

“I know." Otacon looks down, sighing. “I just wish I didn’t make these types of mistakes at all. If I could only think things through a little better. If I were more like you, maybe. Our lives would probably be a lot easier. You never seem to mess up like that, Snake,” he says, not bothering to hide the wistful awe that he still manages to feel over Snake’s perfection. 

“Hey,” Snake says. “Don’t make yourself sound so incompetent. You’re capable of great things, we both know that.”

Otacon tilts his head in a so-so motion. “You don’t know everything, Snake.” 

“Sometimes I think you do, though.” 

Otacon looks away quickly, biting the inside of his cheek. Perhaps Snake’s praise would lighten his spirits, were this any other night, had they not just gone through what they did. Now, he only wants away from the action. 

Snake looks him over for a good, long moment, and Otacon pretends he isn’t watching his partner’s expression twist in the reflection of the vehicle’s window. Snake frowns, finally opening the door and stepping out of the van. Eventually, Otacon does the same. 

After they finally enter their own apartment, they break off from one another, changing out of those tightly-fitted suits and expensive shoes. Otacon holds his own in his hands, and wishes he could burn it. 

Eventually, they find themselves amid their own scattered belongings, standing there wondering just where to start. Otacon has to laugh at both of their hesitancy, at the irony of it all. Snake gives him a look before he begins packing up their clothes - in separate bags - and Otacon eventually does the same, biting his tongue as he collects wires and devices in their designated boxes. He doesn’t need to sharpie a label on each; they never manage to stay settled in long enough to abandon the boxes. 

Otacon knows, this is the quickest they have ever had to leave a city before. Or rather, the fastest either of them have managed to collect undue heat that resulted in an untimely departure. 

His fingers tremble as he sorts through a mess of wires. He ties rubber bands around coiled cables and places each in a box, his mind adrift somewhere else, still stuck in that bathroom with that woman. 

He hates how fresh the wound feels - her pinky finger teasing the waistband of his slacks, the blunt edge of her palm kneading his inner thigh, trying to persuade him to let her in, without actually asking. Otacon coughs into his hand to cover a dry heave as Snake walks by, who either pretends not to notice, or simply doesn’t. He quickly stumbles over to the couch and lets the greasy, flattened cushions surround him. 

Maybe, he thinks, it would’ve been better if her plan had actually worked. It wouldn’t be the first time a coquette had gotten the better of him, convinced him of some false reality or other. If he was someone else, if he was normal, her plan may have gone off without a hitch. 

Where would they be, then? If that were the case, would they really be worse off? 

Otacon buries his head in his hands, wishing he could fall through the floor and just disappear. He doesn't notice Snake walk up beside him, placing a box on the side table and frowning at Otacon. 

“I’m so sorry,” Otacon says, singing another apology, wondering when he’ll stop having things to be sorry for.

Snake crosses his arms. “I thought we already went over this,” he says, clearly put off. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” 

Otacon quickly raises his head, looking up at him. “Don’t I? Snake, if I hadn't jumped to conclusions without doing more research, we may not even be packing up right now. There’s still so much good in this city we could be doing instead, and I went and messed it all up.” 

Snake shrugs. “Everyone makes mistakes.” 

“Yeah, well,” Otacon starts. “Usually mistakes don’t land everyone involved in a position to flee.” 

Snake pauses and takes a seat on the couch beside Otacon, who almost jumps out of his skin at the gesture. Snake holds up a palm, letting him know that this isn’t an interrogation, and Otacon deflates, choosing to cling to the armrest for dear life instead. 

“So,” Snake begins. “You wanna talk about what happened in that bathroom?” 

Otacon flinches, but supposes this to be a reasonable line of questioning. Still, he can only manage to shrug at first when the words won’t come. 

“That’s alright,” Snake says, standing up. “We can talk about it later.” 

“No! It’s alright if we talk. I think I’ve kept you in the dark on too much already.” Otacon looks down at his lap, toying with a loose fabric on his jeans. “I almost got you killed. You deserve an answer to whatever you’d like to ask.”

“I’m not entitled to anything you don’t feel like sharing. And I wasn't the only one out there tonight, Otacon,” Snake says, and yet, he still sits back down beside Otacon, positioning his body towards him, attentive. Otacon doesn’t actually give him enough credit on that front; Snake can be very patient.

“Okay,” Otacon agrees, not sure whether he believes the sincerity behind his consideration. His throat feels painfully dry, but he forces himself to speak nonetheless. “What do you want to know?”

Snake considers him for a moment, likely gauging which waters aren’t teeming with blood. “I just want to know why you let her get under your skin like that,” he says, and Otacon visibly recoils, despite knowing this was coming. “It’s not my business, but I won’t judge you for whatever excuse you give me either. For all I know, you could have just been off your game. Happens to the best of us” 

Otacon finds his gaze drawn to the wall before them, eyeing white streaks in the wallpaper betraying the presence of mold and water damage. He ponders, for a moment, if maybe this night was a blessing in disguise. If that were the case, he probably wouldn’t have such a dreaded feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

He blinks, and looks away, knowing his eyes are probably glazing over by the second. He sighs. “There was someone in my life when I was much younger who she reminded me of. I don’t think her actions were as ill-intended as Mrs. Johansson’s, but they were… sort of similar. Maybe,” he says, drawing his voice down to a mumble. “Maybe I was the problem in both scenarios. It’s possible I could have been the agitator, I just- I don’t know.” When he looks back at Snake, he’s watching too intently, his brows drawn together with what Otacon assumes is either sympathy, or pity. Otacon thinks there’s likely not much difference where he’s concerned. “But it- it’s not like I’m still dwelling on all that. I was only fifteen an-”

“Fifteen?” Snake interjects, his expression lifting with surprise. “Otacon-” he starts.

“It’s not how it sounds! She was my stepmother. My father wasn’t around much when I was a teen, and he always made things around the house so… difficult when he did come home. She was nice to me, and she made me feel seen, like- like I was a person, a _real_ , physical presence in my father’s house. It’s why I… well, nevermind,” he trails off. “She really wasn’t a bad person, Snake.”

“You were _fifteen_.”

“But I knew what we were doing! I was just as involved as she was, and it’s not like I never initiated it.”

“Otacon, that still doesn’t justify her actions,” Snake says. “I’m sure you two knew one another better than you’re letting on, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that you were a child. An isolated, desperate one at that.” 

Otacon makes a high noise, thrown off by the bluntness of Snake’s words. “Not everything is as black-and-white as you make it, Snake. Our lives certainly aren’t. Why is this so hard for you to understand?”

“This isn’t about a lack of comprehension. It’s about you justifying the actions of someone who knew why they were doing and did it anyway.” 

“You’ve done plenty knowing it was wrong! Or at least without clearly justifiable cause.” He knows he’s being somewhat unfair, but this sore still aches, and perhaps his point is that neither of them knows the other well enough to judge their actions. “I’m just saying, things weren’t so simple back then. I was young and dumb, but the same could be said for her. For both of us now, even! I just don’t want you to think that I tried flaking out on you. I… I did my best, Snake. Sometimes I just get too far inside my own head when certain things happen. I can’t help it. I’m sorry,” he says, and quickly looks away, not able to hide his cringe at his own words. 

Snake considers him for what feels like a lifetime, and Otacon has to look away, biting the inside of his cheek, drawing his knees up close to his chest. 

“She meant a lot to you,” Snake says, and it sounds like a question. Otacon turns to him, hearting the subtle edge to his tone. 

“She- well,” he tries, caught off guard seeing Snake’s expression which is bordering on agitation. Something bitter _for_ Otacon hidden just beneath the surface, rather than because of him. Otacon, still, treads on the side of caution and doesn’t assume that Snake fully has his best interest at heart. He wills his expression to something as neutral as he can, rolling one shoulder. “She helped me in her own ways.” He chuckles, almost hearing the waves of desolation lapping against his heart, engulfing him. “When my father was away, which happened a lot - Uhm, me and her would eat dinner together. Sometimes watch movies. She would help me with my homework, even, here and there. When I needed it. She,” he tries, yet his voice breaks, and suddenly those old wounds are not dull aches but bleeding hearts, drenching his sleeves. He looks away to hide the tears. “I shouldn’t have loved her, should I?”

Snake pauses before shaking his head.

“Oh, Snake…” Otacon pleas, burying his face in his knees. “You’re right. I seem like such an idiot, don’t I? That wasn’t— we weren’t in _love_ or anything, but she felt like— I…” _She felt real_ , he wants to say, but he knows that’s wrong, because every lover that ever followed in her wake was a hollow echo of those exact words. Emma was something strange and unattainable, and the latter the same for Sniper Wolf, and yet each time, he convinced himself that there was still something salvageable between them. “But it wasn’t real, was it?” he asks, wiping his cheeks. He feels Snake’s heavy hand on his shoulder, and then on his back rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. “I wish I didn’t let myself get so caught up in the moment... If I could only see things for the finer details, if I were as literal as other people… None of this would be happening. I think... things with Wolf wouldn’t have ended with so much pain. Maybe,” his eyes glaze over, swirling with tears and a type of pain that boils Snake’s blood, on account of how unatoned the sins behind it have stayed over the years. “Maybe I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be fooled the first time.” 

Snake sighs, sympathizing with Otacon’s pain. “There’s nothing wrong with falling in love, Otacon. Or falling hard, either.” 

Otacon quickly looks at him. “But that wasn’t love. None of it ever was. I’ve always been alone,” he says, pulling his knees in closer as if to curl into a ball. “Maybe that’s what hurts so much - knowing I wasted so many years just to realize that they were just that - _wasted._ ” 

“Feelings are never a waste. You don’t have to make up some excuse for what happened. You wouldn’t be the person you are now without it.” 

Otacon snorts, bitterly. “You’re saying I’m better off being naive?” 

“No. Just that sometimes, we’re better off combating the world one way than another."

“That’s funny of you to say, Snake,” Otacon says. “You’re so strong, untouchable… nobody looks at you like they do me. You don’t get it.” 

Snake only frowns, tilting his head. Otacon figures that’s appropriate, and says, “I know that isn’t fair… You have your own skeletons. I’m sorry.” 

Snake’s frown deepens, his expression off-kilter when he soon realizes they aren’t talking about Otacon’s childhood anymore. Still, he won’t dare to say the name they’re both thinking. “You’re a better man than me,” he finally admits, catching Otacon off guard. It takes him a moment, but he understands what Snake means. 

At the end of the day, they’re both stuck fantasizing about the what-ifs, of the effect of which pivotal moment may have been subverted had they chosen a different route, learned to harden their hearts or soften just them the same. They’re imperfect creatures. At least Otacon knows he isn’t being judged for not knowing up from down when it comes to love; Snake himself has no room to talk on the matter. 

The tears don’t stop immediately. Otacon finds himself more in need of a good cry than he’d anticipated, and Snake seems content with just comforting him, despite the fact that they likely have hounds on their tail for the night’s previous mishap. Remembering that certainly does serve to lessen the tears as they fall.

They finished packing up, and just as Otacon had promised, he and Mei Ling were in contact within the hour. In no time at all, they found themselves back on the road, Snake offering to drive the first couple of hours, as he usually does. To where, however, Otacon does not know. 

He hopes that wherever it is, there will be fewer ghosts from his past goading him into small spaces and large crowds only to tear his heart out in the most embarrassing of ways.


End file.
